The Library
by thoughtcrimes
Summary: Modern AU in which Jaqen H'ghar is a graduate student at Kings Institute and Arya Stark is a freshman. When an underclassman, Jaqen and a group of friends foolishly wrote their phone numbers in random novels and Arya, forced to read Nineteen Eighty-Four, unknowingly checks the same book out - two years later. From then on, a string of conversations between '1984' and 'a man' ensue.
1. I

**Author's note: First ASOIAF Fanfiction. Modern AU in which Jaqen is a graduate student pursuing his interest in writing at Kings Institute ( by way of a PhD ), and Arya is a freshman undergraduate pursuing her love of two dimensional art, such as sketching and painting — which Jaqen does on the side. Point of view should be obvious. Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors ( exception for texts, as Arya is certainly not fond of capitalization ) because I am without a Beta reader. Thank you kindly. **

**The Library. Chapter I. **

"Damn it. Where is—"

A short sigh, a quick flicker of grey skimming over a row of perfectly organized books. _Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Animal Farm, Don Quixote . . . Nineteen Eighty-Four_. '_Ah_.' Nimble fingers pull the thinly bound book from its shelf and sift through lightly annotated pages, toned legs shifting to put most body weight on the right limb.

A thin finger then opens to the inside cover of the widely acclaimed novel and traces over a neatly written phone number. '. . . _College_.'

Short moments pass as the freshman student of Kings Art Institute checks out her book and brusquely pushes through the glass doors that mark the exit. She shoves the book, along with the receipt that shows its return date, into her side bag and wastes no time to put her headphones in. Music or no, the opportunity of being stopped by a fellow student will be lowered as long as she at least _looks_ busy with something.

Arya Stark represses a chuckle at the thought and after about ten minutes opens the door to her dorm and drops her keys on the side table that rests just left of the entrance. Her bag stays hung on her shoulders, though, as she needs to have the first three chapters of George Orwell's dystopian novel annotated by the morrow.

A sigh would be a waste of energy at this moment, and so the action is grudgingly repressed.

"Could you throw me that pen over there, Nymeria?" The girl murmurs to herself and walks past her obscenely large dog to retrieve the item that must have dropped out of her bag as she walked in.

Settling on the bed that is nestled in the corner of her small dorm ( near a closed window laced with some black-out curtains — good for nighttime when she wants to remain incognito while staying up late. Her Hall Adviser has a tendency to take late night walks around the dorm rooms and Arya was caught one time more than she had liked, so made no hesitation investing in something that would prevent such stupidity ), she props the book open and eyes the phone number one more time.

'_Why do homework for that class? It blows._' She reasons, pulling her cheap smartphone from her pocket and unlocking its screen. She decides to name the unknown person _1984 _due to the lack of name next to the digits written down.

**[ new SMS to: 1984 ]** hey.

—

"Exactly, yes. All that is needed now is to add some grey to make a more neutral tone—"

A buzz amidst the quiet chatter of the art room causes a good number of students to eye the foreign student, gazes accusatory for only a short while — there is a presentation due within the upcoming week and everyone is beginning to rush on their projects.

"One . . . moment."

Eyes avert and slender fingers click the lock button on the side of a smartphone to quickly see who — or what automated machine — sent an email.

Or text, in this rare case.

**[ new SMS from: unknown ]** hey.

Neat brows furrow in mild confusion at the unexpected message. The man puts his phone away and resumes helping a fellow student, hands soon covered wrist-deep in various shades from the color wheel.

"All right, that is headed in the right direction," he concludes before packing up, sure to not bury the mobile device in his canvas bag — which has happened far too many times — and instead leaves it in his pocket for easy access, as no one texts a man who is bad with technology.

Just as the graduate student enters his bare dorm — half empty because his roommate, Rorge, is studying abroad for the semester — he pulls out his phone and eyes the text for a few moments before deciding to respond. His curiosity is ultimately piqued at the fact that someone has his phone number without his apparent consent.

**[ new SMS to: unknown ]** Hello. Who is this?

—

"'. . . _Only the Thought Police mattered,__'" _she mumbles._ Foreshadowing? Underline_.

A vibration knocks Arya from her string of silence and Nymeria cranes her neck to look back at her owner before resting it once more on to the girl's thin legs in hopes of falling back asleep.

The girl opens her phone and scoffs at the proper capitalization of letters from the person labeled as _1984_. _She_ doesn't have time to press the shift key and _then_ type after that. Capitalizing texts is for Literature majors, not art students currently annoyed by the prospect of annotating a book that has nothing to do with art in the first place.

**[ new SMS to: 1984 ] **found this number inside of a book from the library with no name next to it. if i don't need your name, you don't need mine.

—

As Jaqen H'ghar takes a sip of steaming black coffee, a smirk crosses his thin lips as his bronze eyes read the incoming text message. '_What in the world . . .__' _ He shakes his head and reclines in the dining chair, able fingers quickly typing up a response. Who knew that the prospect of speaking with an anonymous user could be so interesting?

That, or he has a truly uneventful life.

**[ new SMS to: unknown ]** All right, then. A sender may refer to me as 'a man.' That should be simple enough.

But just as the man sends the message, a thought rings through his mind. If the person got his phone number from the library, that means that it must be in _Nineteen Eighty-Four_, as he and a group of close friends — when young, foolish freshmen — wrote each of their phone numbers in various books for the fun of it. He clearly remembers writing down the string of digits in the novel, and in no time sends another text.

**[ new SMS to: unknown ] **And now a man takes the liberty to assume that a stranger attends Kings Institute . . . just as he.


	2. II

**Chapter II**

* * *

><p>"'. . . <em>Just as he.<em>_'"_

'_You__'__ve __**got **__to be kidding me_.'

The thought of 1984 attending the same school as her raises an unnecessary wave of suspicion over the girl and her steel eyes re-read the message more than thrice, lips curling down in thought. Has she seen this . . . man ( or _woman? _) around the campus? Does the person _know_ her? Have they ever _spoken_? _Will _they ever?

She supposes that 1984 meant no harm in his or her text — _maybe _— but nevertheless throws her phone to the end of the bed before proceeding to pull out her sketchbook and make some rough drafts of painting bases that she would like to begin working on in the coming week. Annotating a book is not her cup of tea, and so she allows Orwell's dystopian novel to fall off the bed when she pulls her knees up near her chest.

* * *

><p><em>[ Messages: 17 ]<em>

'_Hmph.'_

Twelve in the morning and scrolling through the dashboard with tired eyes, the freshman looks at all photo posts and skims most of the text-oriented ones. A photo set of children ( why is she following someone who posts anything of that sort, anyway? ) appears and a scoff escapes her thin lips, fingers still sliding against the mousepad. One of those cheesy-looking quotes suddenly catches her attention.

_and emotions, __  
><em>_i cannot allow them to overcome me. _

_not now._

_J.H._

A pause.

Within an instant, Jon, her beloved brother, appears in mind and memories of them playing in the backyard and hiking through the mountains cloud her thoughts. It is almost as if she can actually smell the pine trees and feel the uneven dirt underneath her shoes.

And her father . . . _deceased_ . . . also makes an appearance. He is imagined wearing the warm smile that graced his lips when Arya would actually listen to him and Catelyn, her widowed mother — a rare feat from childhood.

The mere thought of tears crosses the girl's mind and she furrows her brows in anger, quickly pushing the emotion out of her mind.

_Crying won__'__t make him come back. Get over yourself_.

One deep breath later and the girl finds herself on the poet's blog — seen as an extremely cheesy page that has original content from some 'anonymous author' from her point of view — with her mouth formed into a thin line of concentration as she reads various posts that seem to _actually_ apply to her. Things regarding the necessity of art in this world, the need to conceal emotion ( for no one truly cares about others anymore ), and musings pertaining to the untouchable things in life such as love and the all to common exclusion of logic in decision-making.

It all . . . fits.

With only an ounce of hesitation, ( because of the blog's extremely personal content and rather dark subject matter ) Arya presses the _+follow_ button and thinks nothing more of the blog for the rest of the evening before falling into a light slumber.

* * *

><p>And yet, the form does not yield the exact coloring that was originally planned.<p>

Smooth hands run over unshaven cheeks and bronze eyes close in mild frustration, left foot aching to shake out of habit. Lithe limbs remain still, though, eyes once again opening to scrutinize the canvas in front of them.

'_Perhaps it__'__s the right arm. Yes. . . yes, it__'__s a bit too yellow for taste_.'

With precision, the man adds a thin layer of a beige hue over the subject's painted flesh, evening out the colors to get a finish that resembles ivory and after a few seconds of eyeing the work for any other corrections, Jaqen decides to check his phone, for he does not recall being texted back by the sharp-tongued stranger.

**[ new SMS to: unknown ]** Should a man take that as a no?

* * *

><p>Bottom lip held between teeth, eyes rolling in annoyance. <em>Why must blending colors take so long<em>_—_

She studies the painting in front of her with an air of frustration. Using oil paints is a real bother when one wants a painting to dry quickly. In need of a distraction, the girl pulls a sketchbook from her bag that lies on the while tile floor and tapes one of her rough sketches to a new canvas in front of her, as her best option is to start a new painting while her older one dries. Efficiency is key for all art students.

But a very loud notification tone takes precedence over her internal musings and a micro-expression of surprise crosses angular features. _God, I__'__m busy! _

**[ new SMS from: 1984 ] **Should a man take that as a no?

* * *

><p>Had a drink been in hand, it would have fallen to the floor by now.<p>

An annoying buzz tone echoed in the art room only moments after he sent a text message to the stranger, and his bronze eyes automatically spot the person (_ a girl_, he now knows ) who is in the midst of checking her phone. A questionable expression crosses her features and he allows his eyes to narrow in amusement.

He can recognize the girl's face, it is the one that is set as her Tumblr profile picture.

_That__'__s_ who followed him the past evening. Arya Stark.

A look of frustration on her face soon replaces the questionable expression she wore just moments ago, and the man allows his eyes to examine her art from afar, grasping at the problem she's having. He slowly stands and elegantly saunters over to her working area, mildly clearing his throat when he reaches the desired destination.

"May a man offer a girl assistance?" He begins, foreign accent ultimately adding a velvet lustre to his otherwise deep tone. One of his knees lightly protrudes, stance rather informal for a first meeting.

'_Why in the world would he refer to me as __'__a girl,__' __and himself __'__a man?__' __. . . Foreigner,__' _she muses.

Grey eyes dart to bronze and brows knit in what appears to be anger. The petite-framed girl twists her torso to emphasize her expression, eyes not even _trying_ to conceal their judging gaze when they meet the peculiar man's two-toned hair. '_Red and white?__'_ Why take advice from a man who cannot seem to properly put hair dye on his tresses? A snort ensues.

"Do I _look_ like I need help?"

A smirk paints itself across the man's lips and his head slightly shakes in mirth. _A feisty one!_ Yes, this is definitely 'Miss Unknown.'

"It appears so," he continues, focus turning to the canvas that lies before both of the bodies. "A man assumes that a girl is attempting to rush her project? . . . The hurried mixing of colors is quite apparent when up close." A raise of a brow and a look over at the girl follow his words.

She is silent and looking at her own art as if thinking of what to say next. But before she can reply, Jaqen keeps the floor to himself.

"Oil paints usually take at _least_ a week to dry," he emphasizes. "A girl should use a drying medium to help the process."

The man turns around to face a conveniently placed supply desk and rummages for a few moments before finding an old-looking silver tube labeled 'Galkyd' and setting it beside the soul opposite him, for he is not quite sure if she would be keen on taking it from him.

"Here. This should do the trick—"

The alarm on Jaqen's mobile device vibrates in his pant pocket and he realizes that his next class is in twenty minutes, but across campus. Nimble hands fasten the second and third buttons of his dress shirt in an attempt to pull his appearance together, sleeves rolled up in a casual — yet trendy — fashion.

"Yeah, okay." The girl finishes for him, tone no more welcoming than before. "Thanks."

* * *

><p>The enigmatic man exits the art room after apologizing for having to leave in such a rush and the Stark girl eyes the tube of drying medium before grudgingly reading the directions on the back of its label and testing it on a small portion of her canvas.<p>

'_Can't hurt a painting already ruined,' _she reasons.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: Thank you very much to those who have reviewed my story. I apologize for the lack of interaction between our favorite characters, but I must set everything up beforehand. ( And I am still trying to figure out how each of them would actually <em>be<em> in a modern world without being too ****cliché**** — I don't see Arya as the most avid texter _or_ conversationalist, et cetera. ) **

**Once again, no beta. I am replying on the 'Proofread Writing' button for now. If anyone is interested, just PM me.**


End file.
